


Surrender

by twiceborn-witchlighter (Brambleshadow_of_WindClan)



Series: Surrender [1]
Category: Charmed (TV)
Genre: Dark, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Future Fic, Sexual Content, Sexual Slavery, Tumblr Roleplay, changed future, coauthor: Anonymous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-11 16:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12939177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brambleshadow_of_WindClan/pseuds/twiceborn-witchlighter
Summary: A demon has her sights set on making Chris her pet and gives him a rather simple ultimatum: He belongs to her, or else his family will burn.He has no choice but to give in.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> co-written with an Anon through the ask box on my Chris rp blog. Original meme prompt: Send “You belong to me.” to see how my muse reacts.
> 
> Warning: _very_ dark fic featuring _extremely_ dubious consent. _Please_ heed the tags.

_Is this real enough for you?_   
_You were so confused._   
_Now that you’ve decided to stay,_   
_We’ll remain together._

_You can’t abandon me._  
 _You belong to me._  
—Evanescence, “Surrender”

“You belong to me.”

Chris’s eyes flash with fire as he stares the female demon down. “I don’t belong to _anyone_.”

“Yes, you do, little witchlighter. Or else I'll make sure your precious family burns. Wyatt, Melinda, Parker, your parents, everyone. Because you're MINE.”

He steps back reflexively at that, eyes widening,

“No…”

His voice is faint—denial, disbelief. Then anger mixed with desperation starts to set in—because _no one_ threatens his family, but Chris has no doubt that this demon who’s laying a claim on him _will_ carry it out and leave him helpless to do anything.

He swallows hard, closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at her and glances away. Goddess, he wants to fight back, to resist but doesn’t want to put his family at risk.

“…Fine. You win. I’m yours.”

Green eyes snap open; he lifts his head to glare at her with narrowed eyes. “Do what you want to me, but if you hurt my family I’ll _kill_ you.”

“You should try to avoid wearing your heart on your sleeve so much, little witchlighter. It’s easy to see that your precious family is your biggest weakness, how easily you fold when it comes to threatening them. Worse people than me could so easily control you with just a threat of slitting your cousin’s throat or letting your brother die from Darklighter poison. Now, little witchlighter, tell me who you belong to.”

His jaw clenches; Chris grits his teeth, curls his fingers into his palms and feels his nails bite into the skin. He _hates_ this, hates having to _submit_ but she’s not giving him much of a choice.

“You.”

He lowers his gaze, knowing he needs to get the words out, wishing he could say anything else. His voice drops to a whisper:

“I… I belong to you.”

She doesn’t bother hiding the cruelness in her smile as she grips his chin with one hand, her nails pressing into his skin. “You sound unhappy, pet. Would you like me to choose another? I would love to see the powerful Twice-Blessed Wyatt Halliwell on his knees for me. Or the Cupid, Parker? She’s on her knees for others, isn’t she? Would Peyton do? The youngest little witch of the family? Your sister? Another cousin? Or perhaps an innocent, one you've never met? It wouldn't affect you, after all.”

“No!”

His eyes flick to hers before he realizes his mistake, the opening he’s given her. Chris jerks his head from her grasp, curls his lip in a silent snarl.

 “ _You don’t touch them_. Do anything you want to me, but _don’t_ touch them.”

She smirks at him, tangling her fingers into his hair. Leaning close to him, she yanks his head back, placing herself above him as she hisses, “Careful, _pet_ , I’d be more than happy to take another witch to teach you a lesson. You will obey everything I tell you to do or else I will make someone you love pay for it. Understand? I’m even nice enough to let you choose which.”

Pain bites at his scalp as she jerks his head back; he hisses in a breath then forces himself to nod slightly at her words.

 “I understand.”

There’s a pause then, dread swirling somewhere near his stomach. Chris doesn’t really want to know, but he asks the question anyway after wetting suddenly-dry lips with the tip of his tongue:

“What do you want from me?”

Letting out a low laugh, she ducks her head down to nip at his throat. “Tell me, little witchlighter, what do you think I want from you?” Tugging him closer by the loops of his jeans, she amends, “Well, _besides_ your body, pretty witchling.”

Chris flinches when she nips at his throat; reflexively brings his hands up at waist level when she hooks her fingers into the loops of his jeans and tugs him closer. Not for the first time he wishes he had Piper’s molecular immobilization or combustion power, but his own power of telekinesis will have to do.

His skin crawls with revulsion a second later, and he can’t hide the shudder that runs through him.

“My magic. My…”

Nope, he can’t go there; won’t let himself finish that sentence. She’s already admitted she wants his body, and _that’s_ sending mental images he _doesn’t want_ flashing through his head—never mind the fact he’s told her that she can do _anything_ she wants to him and if he disobeys her she’ll leave his family to burn.

“Aw, shaking already?” she croons into his ear. Using the hand threaded in his hair as leverage, she presses herself closer to the witch, brushing her other hand along the waist of his jeans. “Finish that sentence, pet. You think I want your magic, and your what? Tell me exactly what you think I want.”

“I…”

He flinches back as she presses closer, runs her hand along the waistband of his jeans and— _Oh, Goddess, this isn’t happening._

Chris wants to orb away but knows he can’t—if he tried now he’d probably end up taking her with him, given his current emotional state.

“You’ve made it pretty clear that I’m your ‘pet’ and you want me.”

Green eyes nervously eye the path of her hand as best he can, then slowly meet her gaze. A part of him knows she’s going to make him pay for what he says next; another part simply doesn’t care.

“Figure it out on your own.”

She snarls wordlessly, twisting her fingers even further into his hair. Clambering into his lap, she hisses, “Do not defy me, witchling. I OWN you. This,” she punctuates, yanking his head back, “will be your ONLY warning. Next time, I will take one of the people you love, oh so dearly, and make them suffer until they're begging for death and then kill them right in front of you, close enough you can feel as their heart stops beating. Tell me, who would you like it to be? Your choice, _pet_.”

Chris gasps with pain as she yanks his head back again, eyes briefly closing shut before opening again.

 “No one!”

He has no choice but to go submissive on her—and he absolutely _hates_ it.

“I won’t do it again.”

Her laugh had no humor in it as she shook her head. “Too late for that, darling. Make a choice, or I will. Just so you know exactly who will die if you think that you can disobey _me_ , witchling. Who will it be? Your brother? Sister? Cousins? Ah, such a big family, so many choices. If you don’t choose, I may choose two. Kill two birds with one stone?” she mused as she slowly moved one hand up, nails tracing patterns on his stomach underneath his shirt.

Chris’s heart leaps into his throat at her threat. As her nails trace patterns on his stomach, the muscles there tighten involuntarily and he shivers with revulsion.

Still, he needs to give her _something._

 “Then you’ll have to kill me if I disobey you, because you’re _not_ going after my family.”

He rests his hands on her thighs, slowly moves them higher. Maybe if he can get her to focus on him, keep her mind off of going after his siblings and cousins…

Chris lets his eyes drop from hers to her mouth, linger there before roaming over her body. (Cernunnos help him, he _doesn’t_ want this, any of it, but if he can use the fact that she wants him…)

 “And it’s not too late for that—I’ll obey you.”

Goddess, it doesn’t even _sound_ like his voice. _Careful, Chris, don’t overdo it._

 “I’ll give you anything you want. I’m all yours.”

“That you are, pet. Nice try, truly, but you will answer me. Who will it be? Your beloved big brother? That’d be interesting, being able to trace down his throat with a knife, hearing the Twice-Blessed witch scream as I slit his throat. Or a cousin? Which one though? P.J., Parker, Peyton, Tamora, Kat, Henry, oh, there is so many of them. Would you even miss one if I took one of them?” she muses. Her eyes glitter with cold glee before she moves forward, kissing him gently, like a lover would.

Chris’s first instinct is to recoil back—but if he does that, she’ll know he’s planning something. So he lets her kiss him, touch him. He lets his hands rest on her waist beneath her shirt; forces himself to return her kiss so he doesn’t have to answer.

His mind is racing, searching for something to say that will distract her, take her thoughts away from his family. When he has it, he pulls back, averts his gaze and tries to look as submissive as possible.

 “I would.”

It’s a quiet admission, and it’s easy for it to sound like one he’s not proud of. Slowly he again lifts green eyes to hers, lets his fingers start to trace little patterns on her skin in an effort to distract her—arouse her. (Goddess, he can’t believe he’s doing this, selling himself to keep his family safe—but he doesn’t have a choice.)

 “But forget about them.” His voice is low, coaxing— _seductive_ (and he fucking _hates_ himself for it). “You have me—I’m the Halliwell you want. There’s no need to kill any one of them to punish me or make me stay.”

Cautiously, he moves one hand a few inches higher on her body, continues tracing patterns over her skin with a light touch. He’s very much aware that one of her hands is still gripping the back of his head, but he does what he can to arch into her touch—acting like he wants more when he can hear his heart pounding in his ears and fear sends cold shivers down his spine.

“So desperate to make yourself my little whore, witchling?” she taunts, rolling her hips against his. There’s something so intoxicating at having a Halliwell at her mercy. “I wonder what they’d think about that, don’t you? That you’re so willing to submit to a demon like me? Tell me, pet, what do you want? Besides freedom, of course, I don’t share my pets, but I’m not entirely cruel.”

What he _wants_ is for her to be vanquished—but there’s no way he’s admitting that out loud. He doesn’t answer her taunt about being her whore, and refuses to say anything on what his family would think if they found him like this.

To his horror his body reacts when she rolls her hips against his (it’s a stimulus; he can’t control an involuntary reaction, and part of him curls up and dies a little inside while another realizes that he can use this to his advantage. He _had_ wanted her attention on him and away from his family, after all).

“Ich will meinen Körper mit deinem vereinen.”

It’s a whisper, and for a second he doesn’t even realize he wasn’t speaking English. But she’s made it clear that she’s going to have him anyway—and he doesn’t have the option of refusing her, disobeying her.

Hating himself, this entire situation, that there’s nothing else he can do, Chris shifts beneath her and lets his body language go submissive—inviting. She’s already said he’s hers—her pet, her _whore_ —and if he has to sell her his body until he can find some way to escape… he’ll loathe himself forever but he’ll do it if it means keeping her away from his siblings and cousins.

“Truly, I would have thought a Halliwell witch would be more defiant. Oh, your family must be so disappointed in you. So willing, so submissive. So weak.” She grins at his words, settling herself in her pet’s lap. Her previous movements had his body reacting, even if he hadn’t wanted it to. Rocking her hips against his, she kisses up his neck until she reaches his ear. Her words carry an unspoken demand as she purrs, “I believe we’re wearing too many clothes then, darling, don’t you?”

Chris doesn’t rise to the bait, just briefly digs his nails into her skin instead. At her demand, his shoes and clothes disappear in a swirl of white orbs and reappear nearby. (He’s not as generous with hers, making them materialize several feet away. It’s a small act of defiance, but he’ll take any opportunity he can get right now—and in any case, he doesn’t think she’s going to notice right away.)

 “That better?”

There’s only the faintest hint of sarcasm in his voice. This close to her without any layers between them has nerves and something close to nausea fluttering in his stomach, has his abdominal muscles tensing up—and gods, no he doesn’t want this affecting him but the way his body is reacting to her movements is sure to give her other ideas.

So he does what he can to disassociate, slip into a mental state where it’s as if this is happening to someone else.

“Interesting little trick, pet. Maybe I’ll teach you a few more.” She uses the hand in his hair as leverage to push his head forward, capturing his lips roughly. She tugs on his bottom lip with her teeth, murmuring, “You’re mine, little witchling. My whore, my slut, my pet.” Trailing one hand down his hip, she begins tracing patterns on his skin as she continues, “You belong to me, I own you. And do you know why, witchling? Because you’ve let me make you my little whore, my newest pet.”

There’s so many things he wants to say to that but doesn’t. (And so much for disassociating.) So he murmurs, “Yes, mistress,” instead and glides one hand from her waist to her thigh, slips the other hand to her lower back.

Chris pulls his head back from hers just enough to give him room to move, lowers his mouth to her throat and forces himself to nuzzle where her neck meets shoulder. “I’m yours.”

He hates how _easy_ it is for him to act like this, to submit to her—but he _has_ to keep her from going after his family and he _can’t_ let her know that, can’t let her know that he doesn’t truly want _any_ of this and he loathes himself for lowering himself to _this_.

His fingers trace symbols on her thigh; he closes his eyes and buries his face in the crook of her neck so he doesn’t have to look at her.

“Good boy,” she praises. “See, you can learn, my pet. Teach a witch new tricks?” She laughs at that, even though it isn't funny. Running her fingers through her pet’s dark hair, she hums lightly when he nuzzles her throat. Shifting in his lap, she asks again, “What do you want, little witchling?” She’s not stupid enough to believe that he’s broken, not that easily, not with her centuries in the Underworld. But shame and self-loathing work just as well for her than anything else.

Chris gasps a little as his body reacts further when she shifts in his lap, briefly digs his nails into her thigh. Knowing he has to give her something, he lightly kisses his way up her neck to her ear.

 “To please you.”

A shiver runs through him that can easily be mistaken for one of desire; his hips rock slightly into hers. He tugs lightly at her earlobe with his teeth, then releases it.

 “For you to show your witchling whore how you want me to fuck you.”

A part of him can’t believe he just said that while another part wishes that if she’s going to use him for her physical pleasure then she should just get it over with already. And yet another voice in the back of his mind whispers that this is all psychological, another way for her to break him and bend him to her will—and warns that it’s a dangerous game he’s playing.

She lets out a delighted laugh at his words, teasing, “My my, pet, someone isn’t shy at all.” Dragging her nails up and down his spine, she is careful to avoid actually hurting the witch. Where was the fun in that? “As you wish, witchling.” Leaning back, moving her hands to his shoulders, she orders, “Touch me then, if that’s what you’d like, darling.”

Oh _gods_ no, _no_ , her touch—her nails running up and down his spine—shouldn’t arouse him but it _does_. A faint groan leaves his throat that he doesn’t even have to fake—and he doesn’t even want to think about that so he doesn’t: he just lets his body and the stimuli she’s giving him take over.

The hand on her back glides higher up over her skin as he again presses kisses to her throat. His other hand on her thigh traces circles, slowly moves up and inward over her inner thigh. If he can, he wants to drive her so insane with need that she’ll forget about going after his family, forget about anything that isn’t him or her own pleasure (when he doesn’t want to vanquish her, anyway).

 “Where should I touch you, mistress?”

She moans as her pet’s hands move, rocking her hips against his. Eyes darkened with lust, she is caught a little off guard at how easily the witch touches her. Recovering easily, she smirks as she says, “Your choice, pet.” She really does have a thing for his hair, she realizes, as she tangles her fingers in it again to kiss him. She dominates his mouth, teeth tugging at his lower lip as she repeats, “Your choice, pet.”

He can’t help it: he gasps a little into her mouth as she kisses him, tangles her fingers in his hair and rocks against him. (And she _has_ to know what that does to his body; there’s no way she can’t, not when she’s this close to him.)

His hand on her inner thigh inches higher; then he’s cupping her, teasing her with his fingers (Goddess, he wants to die; he wants her to just get this _over_ with; wants to scream at the sensation of her hands on him, of what he’s doing to her but it withers and dies before it can even leave his throat).

Biting down hard on his bottom lip, she tugs before letting go of it, moaning into his mouth. She presses herself against him, murmuring, “Just like that, pet. Such a good pet.” There's a hint of mockery in the last sentence she can’t help, her own amusement at how she has a _Halliwell witch_ naked and gasping against her, how she’s turning the son of a Charmed One into her own little pet, slipping through. Gripping him with one hand, she orders, “Tell me who you belong to, witchling.”

“You,” he whispers—and he _hates_ it, but the more she makes him say it the more he’s starting to believe it. “I belong to you.”

He removes his hand from her to hold onto her hip, kisses her shoulder as he twitches in her hand. ( _This isn’t him_ , but he _doesn’t have a choice_.)

She smirks as he kisses her shoulder, his body reacting under her. She teases him with her hand as she says, “Do you know how attractive it is, pet, when you tell me who you belong to? I do prefer pets that know their place. Tell me, little witchlighter, what’s your place?" She resists the urge to roll her hips against her pet’s again, despite how badly she wants to. She’ll have plenty of time for that later, now is the time to _own_ her newest pet.

He lifts his head from her shoulder, kisses up her neck, nuzzles at her jawline just beneath her ear.

“Serving you.”

It’s not as if he can say much else and it’s what she wants to hear—but it shouldn’t be this _easy_ for the words to leave his mouth. Chris closes his eyes, shudders with a mixture of physical arousal at what she’s doing to him and disgust at himself. His hand on her back moves up again, slides underneath her hair and rests on her opposite shoulder. He shifts beneath her, and at this point he can’t even tell what’s involuntary or not anymore.

“Whoring myself for you.”

He breathes in and exhales shakily; tightens his hold on her hip and shoulder.

“I’m yours,” he whispers, “all yours, your pet witchlighter slut.”

“That’s right, pet. You’re mine. You gave yourself to me, I own you now. You belong to me. And if anyone tries to take you away— Well. I’m possessive of what’s mine,” she warns subtly with an icy smile. She sighs when he tightens his grip on her, pleasure spreading from where his hands are. She always did have a thing for roughness. “Tell me, pet, do you want me? Fuck me, make me scream, my witchlighter?” She punctuates each word with a roll of her hips as she continues teasing him.

He groans low in his throat as his body betrays him, digs his nails into her skin.

 “Yes.”

And on some twisted, messed-up level he _does_ —he _wants_ her to make him want her, to keep her focused solely on him so she won’t murder anyone he cares about. He’s not attracted to her (or to anyone, mostly) but she has him aroused enough that he _wants_ to make her scream as she shatters around him.

 “Please…”

She can’t control the whine that slips out of her throat at her his nails biting into her hip and shoulder. Tightening her grip around him, she begins stroking him before she pulls her hands away from him. Sliding her hands around his shoulders and up the back of his neck, she yanks his head back by his hair, lifting herself up so she’s hovering over his lap instead of sitting in it. Making her way up his neck, she leaves marks on his skin before she demands roughly against his lips: “Fuck me.”

His eyes snap open as she yanks his head back. He groans, shudders as she marks him as hers.

At her demand, he nips at her lower lip, kisses her. His hands position her, lower her onto him, and he gasps against her mouth when he thrusts inside her, filling her completely.

Chris rakes his nails across her hip, her thigh; bites her lip again—he’s not sure how much of it is mild revenge and how much of it is _him_ and oh gods he doesn’t even _want_ to know.

His hips move—and he doesn’t _think_ , just gives in and lets his body find a rhythm she likes.

Her pet slams into her and it’s all she can do keep any semblance of control. She can’t stop the moans and whimpers that slip out of her lips as he roughly fucks her, pain mixing with pleasure. Panting into his mouth, she encourages him as she tugs on his hair and claws at his back. “Such a good witchling, such a pretty whore, just like that, pet.” The sex is good, but it’s even better that it's with this witch, because he’s the son of a Charmed One. Some part of her is irrationally proud of it.

A distant, detached part of him realizes that she _wants_ him (not that she’s really made a secret of it)—that already he’s close to making her lose control—and that detached portion of his mind files that information away for further use.

The rest of him is gone, lost in heat and moans and markings on his skin. He groans softly against her mouth as her nails rake at his back, as she tugs at his hair. His own fingernails claw at her thigh, across her shoulder and upper back; and he arches his spine catlike into her touch.

He’s not himself but he can’t bring himself to care—not when in some twisted way he _wants_ her praise, her marks, her screams…

Throwing her head back in ecstasy, she drags her nails down the witch’s back, hard enough to break skin for a mortal. She doesn’t care if he bled, at this point, he is hers and he can deal with it. Tension begins building as she babbles, “Mine, you’re mine, witchling, my filthy fucking whore, fucking me like the slut you are, like you were born to do it, weren’t you? Because you’re _mine_! Make me scream, witchling, prove that you’re a good pet, my witchling whore."

Chris nuzzles her throat before nipping at the junction where her neck meets shoulder. His tongue rasps over the bite mark a second later (gods, his family’s right—he _is_ a cat, he realizes in an absentminded, detached way).

Arousal coils, tightens; he _needs_ to hear her scream, needs to make her lose control before he—

That vague train of thought shuts down when he feels tiny rivulets of blood trickle down his back. His body shudders; he groans low in his throat, shifts for a slightly better angle— _there_ —

He slams into her, digs his hands into her skin hard enough to bruise and leave little crescent-shaped marks, and sinks his teeth into her shoulder.

She screams his name, ecstasy shooting through her, digging her nails into his shoulder enough to leave to same type of marks he's so generously left on her skin. Clawing at his back, she tightens around him, head thrown back in bliss. She would no doubt have bruises, bite marks, and claw marks on her body for days after this, but, oh, was it worth it. The witch was already one of her favorites, so clever and so quick to obey. She may need to take another as a pet, see if it was a genetic trait.

The sound of her screaming his name, her nails digging into his skin as she climaxes is all the permission his body needs.

He shudders, hands holding her in place so she can’t move, pants and groans against her skin as he empties himself inside her.

Slumping against the witch, she pants for a minute, lazily pressing an open-mouthed kiss against his shoulder. Lifting her head up to look at him, she recovers quickly as she asks, “So, pet, is that a genetic trait? Because I might just take another one to see if your siblings or cousins are just as good of a pet as you.” She wonders exactly how he’ll react to being reminded of his family after this. She hasn’t gotten the chance to describe killing a witch for far too long; it could be a fun game.

His eyes flash green fire at her words. “No.” It’s almost a growl; then he realizes, softens his tone and slowly runs the pads of his fingers over her body. “They won’t be able to please you like I can.” His hand on her hip moves up, over her stomach, rests on the side of her ribs just beneath the swell of her breast. “They’d put up more of a fight, would force you to kill them before they submitted to you.”

Chris dips his head, nuzzles almost lazily at her throat before trailing kisses up her jawline to her ear. His tongue darts out, tastes her. “If you take another one that would bring the others—they would vanquish you and take your witchlighter whore with them.”

He tugs her earlobe lightly with his teeth, brushes his thumb over her breast. He’s still hard inside her; can still feel tiny aftershocks from her body even though she’s recovered; can feel their combined fluids start to trickle down the inside of her thigh. (A tiny part of him recoils, and later he can give into that feeling but not now, not when she’s here.)

“You know they would.”

She lets him touch her, lets him voice his arguments. Raising one eyebrow haughtily, she tangles her fingers in his hair to control his head as she warns, “You do not decide that, witchling. They cannot vanquish me, darling, I’ve been against far worse. Tell me, what’s the real reason you don't want me to take one? I’m far from stupid, pet, you're not jealous.” She already knows why, but she wants to hear him say it. Still, she leans into his touch as he kisses her skin, runs his hands over her.

“Not jealous, no,” he admits reluctantly, “but I don’t want to share you. I… I don’t want them to see me like this.” It’s true enough, even if it’s not his only reason. “As your slave, a demon’s whore. They wouldn’t want anything to do with me.” Not that his family ever does anyway: Wyatt’s always been the center of their attention, and Chris had been sidelined further when Melinda and then the cousins came along.

There’s self-loathing in his voice, along with something _else_ he can’t (won’t) identify, but there’s more than enough truth there that makes it clear he believes it. (He also doesn’t want them anywhere near her—and right now he’s no longer entirely sure of his reasons _why_ : if he wants to keep them safe, doesn’t want them to know what he’s done, or if some twisted part of him actually _likes_ that she’s claimed him.)

“Not after finding out that I willingly gave myself to you.” He bends his head, rasps his tongue over the bite mark on her shoulder. “Whoever you take would fight, escape… tell the others that I’m your good little half-Whitelighter slut.”

She hums lightly to acknowledge his words, running her fingers through his hair. Her voice is gentle, but amused as she asks, “You think that one of them could escape me? Darling, I don’t know whether you believe your siblings or cousins to be stronger than they are or if you think I’m weak. Should be I be insulted, pet?” Thinking about the rest of his words, she holds back a grin. “I must say, pet, I’m quite fascinated by the idea of showing exactly how you use your hands. It’s quite sexy, pet.”

“No, it’s not an insult. They’re just stubborn and determined like that whenever they’re involved in demonic kidnappings, much less having to spend extended time in the Underworld.” He closes his eyes, leans into her touch as she runs her fingers through his hair—it’s oddly comforting, and… oh, Goddess, no he is _not purring_ in **_contentment_** like the cat everyone in his family says he is.

Chris stops as soon as he notices, eyes blinking open; tries to focus on her last statement and realizes he’s still _caressing_ her with the pads of his fingers. “Showing who?” he asks warily, not sure if he wants to hear her answer.

Lifting one eyebrow, she’s surprised and amused that her pet is _purring_ under her hand. She doesn’t answer his question, frowning thoughtfully. “Your family sounds like more of a nuisance, pet. I am starting to think that it’d be best for them to die, far too much of a risk to me, if they’re as intent as you say. You don’t want them to take you away from me, do you?" Kissing him, she sucked on his lower lip before she asked, “Unless you’d like me to show them how I own you, my pet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes: "Ich will meinen Körper mit deinem vereinen." —I want my body to join/combine/unite with yours. (There's a few different ways to translate it.)


	2. Chapter 2

“Yes.” There’s only one answer he can give her that will keep his family alive. “Show them how you own me,” he whispers—and shame and self-loathing returns full-force. “Claim me.” He returns her kiss, palms her breast. “Let them know I’m yours.”

He softens enough to leave her body—and Chris tries not to think about the mixture of fluids slowly seeping from her or the potential ramifications.

Raising one eyebrow, she tightens her hand in his hair. “You’re not very convincing, pet. I didn’t take you one for humiliation and exhibitionism. Furthermore, I find the idea of killing them much more compelling. But you don’t want that, do you?” Biting down on his lower lip, she loosely wraps her legs around his hips, ankles crossing over the small of his back. “You want me to leave them alive, don’t you? Such a protective little witchling whore. Tell me, slut, why do you care for them?”

“They’re still my family,” he says—though it doesn’t mean much when in another life he remembers them kicking him out of the house, Leo saying he _isn’t_ family; Phoebe saying that his only destiny was to come back and warn them about Wyatt turning evil and that was all; making him live in a room at P3 while serving as their Whitelighter instead of in the manor. “Not that they’ll notice I’m gone,” he adds sardonically. “The fact I’m not nearly as powerful as the precious Twice-Blessed was something of a… disappointment to them. Made it easy for them to overlook me.”

He stops, not wanting to say anything about Melinda or the cousins—he’s given her enough to get the general idea (and really, it’s Leo, Piper, and his aunts he’s talking about)—and slides his arms around her back as he curls into her embrace. “They don’t know me.”

Chris trails kisses up her throat. “And you’d be surprised what your witchling slut is into.”

“Not quite an answer, pet,” she points out, but lets it go, noting his reaction for later. Wrinkling her nose, she says, “Disappointing. I’d have expected them at least to know power is overrated, it’s how you use what you have that matters. Your family is clearly foolish to dismiss you, but I digress.” Leaning her head back, her eyes flutter shut as she sighs, his lips on her throat as her nails skim his spine. “Now, darling, that I am interested in. Tell me, pet what _are_ you into exactly?”

He’s silent for a few minutes, mentally running down what he likes and matching it to names—and arousal faintly shimmers through him when she skims her nails down his spine. “That—what you’re doing now with your hands.” He shivers a little, tries to get his scattered thoughts to focus (and again there’s a part of him that’s detached from all of this). “Bondage. When you tell me how you’re going to fuck me, tell me what you want from me. Begging. Tasting you, making you scream.” He rasps his tongue over the bite mark on her shoulder—lazily, almost catlike. “Biting.” The one he says next surprises him, but as soon as he says it he realizes he wants it: “You slamming me up against a wall, fucking me while others watch so they _know_ I belong to you.”

She doesn’t say anything, chooses instead to kiss him, somewhere between rough and gentle. One hand tangles in his hair, the other running her nails down his spine before moving to his thigh. Biting his lip, she presses their foreheads together as she wets her lips before she comments, “ _That_ , pet, is very attractive. Tell me, darling, what would you beg for? I like when witches beg, it’s quite a turn on. Who do you want to know that I own you? I’m possessive, darling, I may kill them after.”

He hasn’t expected this, her treating him this way—and even with their current positions, her pressing her forehead to his seems strangely intimate. Chris isn’t even sure how he’s _supposed_ to feel about that.

The detached, distant part of his mind shies away even as his body shivers at her touch, the tone in her voice. “I’d beg for you to touch me,” he whispers, “to claim me, take me, ride me…” There’s more, but he doesn’t want to say it.

So instead he answers her second question: “Demons, warlocks, Darklighters.” He hesitates, shudders, and then adds firmly, “ _Not_ Barbas. I… I can’t. Not him.” Even the thought of being _near_ the Demon of Fear makes him feel ill, let alone the possibility that his greatest fear has changed: that some part of him actually _likes_ being her slave and doesn’t want to leave.

 “Trust me, darling, I’m not nearly foolish enough to go near him.” Tracing patterns against his skin, she asks, “Do you like the idea of that? Begging me to do whatever I want to you? Owning you? Riding you until you scream for me? Using you as my little witchling whore?” She tugs his head back to nip and suck at his throat, rasping her tongue over the mark she leaves there. She growls against his throat, “ _Mine_ , witchling, don’t forget.” Pulling back for a moment, she demands, “Beg.”

His first reaction is a sense of relief when she says she’s not going anywhere near the Demon of Fear; his second is arousal when she tugs his head back, nips at his throat, _orders_ him to beg. (Goddess, it _shouldn’t_ arouse him but it _does_.)

“Fuck me,” Chris hears himself plead. “Ride me. _Please_.”

“Do you think you deserve that, pet?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. Gripping him suddenly, she touches him slowly, taking pleasure in drawing it out as she asks, “You want me riding your cock? Fucking you until all you can do is beg for me, to do whatever I please?” Part of her wonders if she can make him come undone with just her hand and words, while another wonders who can hold out longer between them before they take the other. She doesn’t mind the idea of her pet losing control.

“Yes…” It’s half whisper, half plea; he bites back a groan, shudders, forces himself to stay still and not move into her touch.

His body isn’t his own right now—and the small, distant part of his mind that’s still _Chris_ isn’t sure whether that makes this better or worse.

“Want you riding me.” He slowly trails his nails down her back. “Fucking me, making me beg to come, for you to do whatever you want to me.”

He slowly lifts green eyes to hers. “Is that what you want? Having your whore inside you, begging for release until you make me lose control and fill you?”

She arches her back, a small moan slipping between her lips. From his nails along her back or his words, she can’t tell. “Now, pet, why didn’t you tell me exactly how filthy that pretty mouth of yours could be? You have no idea how much of a turn-on that is, pet, hearing you tell me what you want.” She rocks her hips against his, not nearly enough to satisfy either of them. She continues teasing him. “Tell me, pet, what else you want? I quite like the idea of you on your knees, personally.”

“If that’s what you want.” Already he’s responding to her hand on him, her hips rocking against his. “Me on my knees in front of you, my head between your thighs, tasting you—pleasing you with just my mouth, drinking you down.” His hands rest on her hips, fingers tracing small circular patterns on her skin. “Or…”

He kisses her, bites down on her lower lip before drawing back. “You could tie me to a bed, blindfold me, do what you want to me and leave me pleading to be inside you, for you to take me.”

His hips rock into hers; his hands move down to her thighs. “But right now I want you riding me, fucking me. Want you to make me scream, want to hear how much you like having your witchlighter whore.”

He nuzzles beneath her ear, then whispers, “Make me beg to spill myself inside you. Would you like that—your slut pleading, losing control and filling you with my seed?”

Her breath catches in her throat as she slides her hands up to his shoulders. She grinds against him, taking the edge of her arousal and letting him feel her. “Such a dirty mind, pet, you should have told me. It’s quite attractive.” Still, she doesn’t move enough for either of them, even as her body aches for his touch. “If you want something, pet, then you have to take it. Darling, such a filthy mouth, can't you back it up?” Her teasing is gentle, even as the gleam in her eyes is a challenge.

He gasps as she grinds against him, groans softly at her teasing.

“Just _fuck me_ already,” he begs, hands moving from her thighs to her hips, lifting her just enough to line her up and hold her there—teasing, taunting.

He kisses her throat, her jawline. “Take me,” he breathes in her ear. “Ride me like the filthy slut I am.” Teeth lightly tug her earlobe, then release it. “You know you want to—I can already feel how wet you are.” He lowers her onto him by a centimeter then stops, holding her in place. She’s the one who wanted him to beg in the first place, wanted to ride him—so now he might as well make her work for it.

“Make me yours,” he whispers—pleads—and closes his eyes, bends his head to her shoulder so he doesn’t have to look at her while he falls further from any hope of redeeming himself to his family or the Elder Whitelighters.

She pouts at his teasing, running her fingers through his hair. “Defiant witchling, aren't you?” She shifts in his lap, his hands on her hips lighting a fire underneath her skin. With her free hand, she drags her nails up and down his spine, enough to cause flashes of pain and red marks but not enough to draw blood. “Don’t you want me? Or am I not pretty enough for you, pet?” She injects a small amount of sadness and hurt into the last question. “So intent to avoid doing it yourself, darling.”

 “You wanted me to beg,” he points out before hissing in a breath when she drags her nails down his spine and arching into her touch.

Too late, he realizes that getting smart with her again is a bad idea. So instead he kisses where her neck meets shoulder, slowly lowers her down until he’s completely sheathed inside her.

“That answer your question?” he murmurs against her skin, trailing kisses up her throat while he moves his hands from her hips to waist, skims them over her back.

“Not particularly,” she says, stifling a gasp. She grips his hair, tugging at his head as he kisses her throat. Lifting herself up, she slams back down on him, moaning at the feeling. Setting a rough pace, she claws at his back, leaving red scratches on his skin. “Still want to beg, pet? Want me to own you, show everyone who you belong to? Who you gave yourself to? Made yourself into my own little witchlighter pet. Do you want that, my little whore? So desperate to make yourself my slut, pet?”

“ _Yes_.” He gasps as she claws at his back, tilts his head back with a moan and exposes his throat to her. All his body can do right now is just hang on. “Own me, show them I’m yours.” With the rough pace she’s set, he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll last.

“ _Please_ …”

"That's right, pet, I own you." She takes the chance to nip at his throat, leaving marks all over hit neck as if they were teenagers in the back of a car. She buries her face against his shoulder, rasping her tongue over one of the marks on his neck and shoulder. Pressure builds as she digs her nails into his back, whimpering into his skin. "Do you want to come for me, my little witchlighter whore? Show how good of a slut you are?"

“Yes.” It’s a moan; already he can feel the tension coiling, ready to snap. His nails dig into her skin; he shifts, wanting more. (He can’t stop; his body isn’t his; this is happening to someone else and oh gods he _needs_ to come…)

“Let me come,” he begs. “Please… Want to—need to come.” 

“I don’t know, pet, do you think you deserve it?” she taunts, teases as she continues riding him roughly. The flashes of pain from his nails make her groan as she writhes against him. “Deserve to get to come inside your owner, little whore? Of course, there’s the question of if you deserve to get to fuck me, but I’m not cruel. Do you like that? Touching me, making me whimper your name, make me moan as I ride your cock like my own little slut? That’s all you are, isn't it, pet? A slut, a whore?”

“ _Yes_.” He shivers, moans in pleasure at her words (and the small part of him that’s still _Chris_ dies a little further). “I’m yours.” Pale green eyes darken to emerald. “All yours, your slut, your whore.” Despite her rough pace his hips move, trying to find her rhythm—and he groans low in his throat as the coil tightens further.

“Wanna come. Want to please you. I’m so close…”

His nails rake across her back; he shudders, moans wordlessly—and feels his magic simmering beneath his skin (even in this state, he knows that’s not a good sign).

“That’s right, you’re mine, my little witchlighter, my whore, my slut, my very own witchling _pet_.” She arches her back underneath his nails, whining wordlessly. She digs her heels into the small of his back, unable to keep from gasping. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she yanks his head back, tugging on his earlobe with her teeth. Releasing his earlobe, she switches to kissing him roughly. Pulling back, long hair a mess, she orders, “Come for me, my little witchling whore. Don’t you want me?”

His only answer is a soft groan (there may be a “yes” in there somewhere, he can’t tell) as the coil snaps. He spills himself inside her, filling her until there’s nothing else for him to give.

At last, panting, spent, he curls into her embrace, nuzzles her neck as he buries his face in her shoulder. His skin feels oversensitive, like it usually does whenever his magic surges close—the scratches and marks she’s left on him sting. Right then he doesn’t need rough; he wants gentle—but he’s not sure if she’ll give him that.

“Good witch,” she croons into his ear, her hand gentling in his hair. Running her fingers through his hair, she sighs unhappily as she resigns herself to dealing with lingering arousal later. It’s better to attend to her pet now. She wraps one arm around his back, dropping her head down to rest on his. She shifts in his lap, tangling their legs together as she asks, “What do you need, pet?” Better to ask him and see if he knew before fumbling around, trying to figure it out herself.

He can’t help it: he hisses in a breath when she moves. Even that contact is too much for his oversensitive skin—yet his magic practically hums, wants _more_ and— Oh, Goddess, no, that’s _not_ good.

Chris winces, tries to draw back, and bites back a scream as his skin brushes against hers. “Don’t touch me,” he hisses through gritted teeth. Then he realizes how that sounded, hastily mutters a “Sorry”.

“My magic—I’m just… oversensitive. I…” His voice trails off, unsure of how to even finish that sentence or tell her what he needs when he can’t even _think_ clearly right now.

Cocking her head to the side, she gives a soft hum in acknowledgement before she slips out of his lap. Settling on the ground next to him, she crosses her legs, far more casual than a normal person would be when naked. Eyeing him carefully, she repeats, “What do you need, pet?” Resting her hands on her knees, she brushes long hair over one shoulder as she says, “Tell me, darling, and I’ll make it happen. Whatever you may think of me, I’m not a cruel person, witchling.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Breathe in and take my life in you._  
_No longer myself, only you._  
_There's no escaping me, my love.  
_ _Surrender._

_Darling, there's no sense in running._  
_You know I will find you._  
_Everything is perfect now.  
_ _We can live forever._

_You can't abandon me._  
_You belong to me._  
—Evanescence, "Surrender"

“I…” He tries to collect his scattered thoughts, which isn’t easy when his skin is still this sensitive and he can feel his magic humming through his veins. _Okay. Priorities. First things first._ “A bath, for one.” He winces a little, rakes a hand through his hair as he turns his head to look at her. “I’ll need to go back at some point, just to keep up appearances, keep them from worrying. And…” He swallows, licks his lips. Despite his current oversensitive state his magic _wants_ her touching him, caressing him. “You didn’t come,” he realizes suddenly.

Before he can reconsider, he disappears in a swirl of orbs, reappears in front of her on all fours. His hands are already reaching for her legs to reposition them before he remembers, stops, flicks his eyes up to hers. “May I?”

Eyes focused on him, she nods silently at his words, before freezing in surprise when he orbs in front of her. Taking a breath, she leans forward, cupping his cheek as she briefly considers him teasing him. However, she hesitates before drawing back to say, “Your choice, pet. If you’d like me to touch you, you don’t need to do anything to get me to do _that_.” She lets out a small laugh. While the idea of her pet touching her was appealing, she thought that giving him choices would appeal to him.

Chris blinks slowly in surprise, looks up at her. As much as he’d like a bath right now… he’s confused, unsure how to handle this. It has to be another way of manipulating him, her _wanting_ him to stay, but…

“Don’t you want me to eat you out?” Though, really, he can probably do that after washing himself up—and Goddess, he can’t believe he’s offering, that a part of him wants to see to her needs.

Tilting her head to one side, she watches him evenly for a moment. “I want a lot of things, pet, but that doesn’t mean much. It’s your choice, darling.” She leans forward again, kissing him softly and slowly. Pulling back a minute later, she leaves him with a chaste kiss pressed to the edge of his mouth. “It’s sweet, however, that you’d ask. But what I _want_ is for you to do whatever it is that you need.” Looking up at him from underneath dark lashes, she sits back on her heels, waiting.

He’s not sure how to react to this. Chris can handle her being rough, can handle her being dominant, and okay, yes, given his overstimulated sense of touch right now he needs gentle, but…

He swallows, slowly lifts his gaze to hers. “Bath first,” he says. “Then, later…” He stops, looks away. “I’m all yours.”

“You sound so excited, pet,” she says dryly. Leaning forward, she gently grasps onto his wrist and shimmers away, pulling him with her. Reappearing on a large bed, she nods towards a closed door. “Bath’s in there, pet.” Sliding her hand up to cup his face, she tugs him forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth before she teases, “If you’d like company, don’t hesitate to let me know.” With a small laugh, she stretches out across the bed, humming in contentment.

Chris doesn’t say anything for a minute after he reappears with her on the large bed, his stomach lurching as an after-effect of shimmering on the Whitelighter half of his DNA. It doesn’t _hurt_ , exactly, but it feels _wrong_ to him and he doesn’t like it.

By now his magic has settled enough that his skin doesn’t feel as sensitive as it was moments before, but he still doesn’t know if he can handle her touch without wanting to scream from the contact. (And he _strongly_ dislikes her calling him her “pet”.)

Chris slides from the bed as she stretches out across it, turns and walks to the closed door where she said the bath was. He can feel her eyes on him—their clothes are still in the cavern, and he needs to figure out where they are, see if they’re still in the Underworld or somewhere else on Earth (San Francisco, maybe?)—as he opens the door and steps inside, leaving it open for her (for reasons he either doesn’t understand or doesn’t want to think about).

It’s not long before he has warm water going, then stops when it reaches the level he wants. He slowly lowers himself into the bath, hissing in a breath when it first comes into contact with his skin—and then gradually allows himself to relax, let the warmth soak into his muscles and ease the sting from the scratches and bites she’s left on his body.

When he’s finished and the water’s drained from the bath, he steps out, dries himself off with a towel and wraps it around his waist. With a glance at the mirror, he sees the extent of her possessive marks on him and mutters, _“Let the object of objection become but a dream as I cause the seen to be unseen.”_

The bite marks and scratches are gone in small flurries of blue-white orbs as the vanishing spell (one of his and Aunt Paige’s favorites) takes effect. Satisfied—at least this way there’s no chance of demonic infection and he’s fairly certain she’ll take any chance she can to leave signs of her possession all over him anyway—Chris steps out into the main room and leans back against the doorway for a moment. He lets his eyes wander over her, take in how she’s still stretched out on the bed.

“I’m not your ‘pet’,” he says, then winces internally. “Your witchlighter, your whore, your slut, fine—but not your pet. I’m not a dog.” (If anything, he’s a cat—panther, most likely—but he doesn’t want to tell her that.)

She raises one eyebrow at him, noting the vanished scratches and bite marks. Interesting trick, she thinks to herself, feeling a slight ache from her own marks. Rolling onto her stomach, she crosses her ankles as she looks curiously at the witch. She asks, "You're perfectly fine with being called a whore or a slut, but being called a pet is what upsets you, darling?" Shrugging, she says, "If that's what'd you prefer, love, but that may take time for me to remember."

Blatantly running her eyes up and down the witch, she adds, “Wonderful view, by the way, witchling, you should do it more often.” Sliding off the bed, she approaches him, gently resting one hand on his shoulder. Head tilted to one side, she asks softly, “You’re uninjured, yes? I’ve been told I can be… rather rough without intending to. I did not intend to harm you, darling, that I assure you. If I did, I offer you my most sincere apologies, love, it was not my intention.”

“Yes,” Chris says, head tilting slightly to the side at her new endearment for him. It’s an answer to both her observation that being called her pet upsets him and her question that he’s uninjured. “And no, you didn’t hurt me. Well, not badly, anyway.” He shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”

He lets his gaze darken as he deliberately runs his eyes slowly over her body before focusing again on her face. (Yes, he’s grey-asexual and only feels attraction under rare or extreme circumstances, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to use his sensuality to his advantage—and he had wanted her attention completely on him, not to mention said that she could do anything she wanted to him.) Still, he doesn’t make any move to touch her: she’s the dominant, the one in charge, and he doesn’t want to risk angering her. Even so… he’s unsure how to deal with this gentle side to her (well, for a demon, anyway).

“‘Love’, huh?” he notes. And his right hand moves, rests on her waist. “That’s new.” He’s silent for a moment, lightly stroking her skin. “Is that what you want me to be?” He dips his head toward hers. “Your witch, your whore? Consort?” (He’s already her whore, but at this point it’s semantics.)

His left hand comes up underneath her hair to cup the back of her neck. Before he can reconsider he kisses her—softly, gently—then pulls back. “Your lover?” It’s a purr ( _Goddess_ , he didn’t even think he could get his voice to _sound_ like that—and _oh_ , just like that he’s fallen so far that he _knows_ the Elders would at the very least _try_ to clip his wings if they ever found out about this).

“Would you prefer something else, darling?” she asks. She can’t help but still when one of his hands rest on her waist. Her breath hitches at his words, it’s far too attractive hearing him call himself her’s. She leans her back when he kisses her, letting out a wordless whine when he pulls away. She doesn’t answer his question, just repeats, “I want a lot of things, Christopher, that doesn’t mean I get them.”

Truthfully, the witch had realized what she’d wanted far too quickly for her comfort. She can’t help the slight unease at how easily he figured out her desires. She focuses back on him, one hand sliding from his shoulder to the back of his neck while she drags her nails down his spine. “Tell me, witchling, what do you want? Ask, and if it’s within my power, it’s your’s.”

He raises an eyebrow at that. “You have me,” he points out, doesn’t hide the tremors of physical arousal at her touch. (Already his body is getting used to her, and he’s not entirely sure if that’s a good thing.) “And what I want…” His right hand moves down her waist, her thigh. “…is you.”

He hasn’t answered her question on whether or not he’d prefer something else (and really, he figures it’s better than the alternative), but Chris doesn’t care at the moment.

He kisses her again, breaks the kiss to nuzzle at her throat, and focuses on the bite marks and scratches he’s left on her skin. _“Let the object of objection become but a dream,”_ he whispers, _“as I cause the seen to be unseen.”_

Her own marks are gone seconds later in small flurries of blue-white orbs, and he kisses his way up her throat to her ear. “What do you want from me?”

She lets her head fall back, exposing her throat to the witch pressing kisses up to her ear. "Interesting trick, love," she murmurs. He hadn't said no to the new pet name, so she'll stick with it until he indicates otherwise. Leaning into his touch, she continues running her nails up and down his spine. "I want a lot of things from you, darling, but if you're looking for specifics..." She moves the hand on the back of his neck to tangle in his hair as she requests, "Kiss me?"

When she asks like that… Goddess as much as he wants to he can’t refuse her ~~(doesn’t want to refuse her)~~. Chris draws back, then kisses her—slowly, at first; then he deepens the kiss, threads the fingers of his left hand through her hair.

When he finally stops and draws back, speaks, his voice is huskier than he’d intended: “Tell me what you want from me—what you want me to do to you.” His right hand drifts further down her leg—he’s still wearing nothing but a towel, considers loosening it from his hips with his telekinesis before deciding that if she wants it gone then she can do it herself.

She returns the kiss eagerly, pouting slightly when he draws back. At his words, however, her eyes darken with lust. She pushes him against the bathroom door, pinning him there with only her body. If he truly wants to move, he can easily turn it around on her. She shouldn't find it as intriguing as she does, at the idea of being at the witch's mercy, not when he's not completely her's yet. She presses a kiss against his shoulder, careful to avoid leaving a mark yet.

Kissing up his shoulder, she makes her way up his throat to his lips, not quite kissing him fully. Running her fingers through his hair, she teases, “What do I want you to do to me, love? There are a lot of answers to that question.” It’s harder to focus than she thought it’d be, with his hands on her. “I wouldn’t mind you making me scream your name, making me moan like a slut, or a good many things, darling.”

With the hand not in his hair, she traces down his chest and stomach, stopping at where the towel is still around his hips. Her fingers trace patterns against his bare skin as she looks up at him from underneath dark lashes, expression far too innocent for the situation. “Touch me?”

Chris doesn’t mean to—really he doesn’t—but she pins him there against the door, her lips touch his throat, and arousal flares so strongly that he practically melts into her, groans softly as she runs a hand down his body.

At her request, his hands move over her skin, brush against her inner thighs. This is _wrong_ , so very wrong, but he can’t bring himself to care if it’ll keep his siblings and cousins safe from her, if it will keep her focused solely on _him_.

A thought occurs to him (again) and despite the fact it’s not even remotely funny he chokes out a faint, dark laugh. “The Elders would clip my wings if they ever found out—a half-Whitelighter and son of a Charmed One…” His right hand moves higher, slips a finger inside her. “…lowering himself to a demon’s whore.”

He adds another finger, slowly begins to explore her. After a while he removes his fingers, trails patterns across her inner thighs.

She smirks as he practically melts against her, resisting the urge to giggle. Her smirk fades to a frown at his words and she starts to speak, something she was sure was supposed to point out how even demons were before than the damned Elders, but his hand moves higher and all she can do is moan. She grabs onto his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, using him to keep herself standing. Her head falls back as he touches her, moans falling from her lips.

 _Such a tease,_ she thinks. She whines wordlessly when he pulls his fingers away, reaching up to tug at his hair and claw at his back lightly in revenge. She’d deny it forever if asked, but she can’t help but practically beg him, “Don’t stop, _please_.” She presses herself closer to him, blue eyes darkened with lust. She presses a clumsy kiss against his throat, trembling against him. She repeats her earlier request, “Touch me, witchling?”


	4. Chapter 4

_Breathe in and take my life in you._  
_No longer myself, only you._  
 _There's no escaping me, my love._  
 _Surrender._

 _Hands up slowly._  
_Give into..._

 _Breathe in and take my life in you._  
_No longer myself, only you._  
_There's no escaping me, my love._  
_Surrender.  
_ —Evanescence, "Surrender"

Surprise flashes though him as Chris realizes that she's actually begging for him, even as she presses her body against his, kisses his throat. She's so close he can feel her trembling.

And again, he doesn't have the choice of refusing her. Still…

His hands move—not to touch her again, but to grasp her hips. He shifts, steps forward—guiding her back across the room to the bed. "I won't and I will," he says quietly, "but if you're in bed you won't have to use me to keep standing."

As desperate as she is, she's not gone enough to not freeze the moment the witch moves, nails digging hard enough into his skin to make a mortal bleed. It'd hardly be the first time something went wrong when it came to someone with a physical advantage over her. She relaxes at his words, lets him guide her to the bed. She lets her hands skim down his body, stopping at his hips and just above his towel. Looking up at him, she asks simply, "Can I kiss you, love?"

"Yes." There's nothing else he  _can_  say—she's made it clear what she'll do if he defies her again.

Chris lets his hands trace patterns on her skin; skim up her hips and sides, down along her back and spine. It's still strange to him, her sudden gentleness after her rough treatment of him earlier—her threats as to what she'll do to his family if he didn't submit. And he  _does_  prefer her calling him her "love" as opposed to her "pet" (she never had given him a definitive answer as to his previous question if that's what she wanted him to be to her), but…

"Kiss me," he hears himself say, feels heat beneath his skin where her hands are touching him (and that's  _not good_  but already he's disassociating again, the part of him that's  _Chris_ closing itself off so it's as if his body isn't his own, that she's touching someone else).

"Please."

She cups his face with one hand, pressing her lips to his. She keeps the kiss slow, content to simply stay there in that moment. Her other hand rests on his hip, which she uses as leverage to pull him against her without breaking the kiss. After a minute, she pulls away, resting her forehead against his to ask, "What do you want, love?"

The words catch in his throat; Chris swallows, wets his lips before admitting softly, "I want to taste you."

His hands move back down her body, rest on her waist, apply slight pressure as a non-verbal cue for her to sit down on the bed—or lie back; he doesn't know or care which position she prefers. "Let me taste you." It's a whisper. "Please you. Make you moan, scream."

Given how she's being with him right now, her new choice of endearment (such as it is) for him, the complete 180 from how she'd treated him earlier… another thought, suggestion occurs to him—but for now he keeps it to himself. Wait, see what else she wants first (and even though she's  _claimed_  him, made him  _hers_ , a small closed-off part of him still balks—he hates  _everything_  about this).

She sits down on the edge of the bed, separating her legs. She tugs the witch forward to stand between her legs, reaching up to kiss him again. Nipping at his lower lip, she murmurs, "Whatever you want, darling." Pulling away from his mouth, she drops her hands down to rest on the bed, leaning back casually. She briefly considers the idea that he's up to something, before dismissing it for the time. There wasn't much he could do at the moment that she couldn't handle. He wasn't her first witch.

Something close to relief flashes through him at her permission (and the distant part of him doesn't even  _want_  to read into that). As soon as she's sitting and leaning back on the bed, Chris lowers himself to his knees in front of her, runs his hands lightly along the insides of her thighs to open her further to him.

He lifts his eyes to hers to gauge her reaction; then he's leaning forward, running his tongue along her—exploring her, tasting her. Slowly. Taking his time. This time, at least, he can give her  _that_  satisfaction—the sight of her witch lowered before her, worshiping her body.

There is something so attractive at seeing him on his knees in front of her. His hands feel impossibly hot on her skin as he looks up at her. She bites her lip, twisting her fingers anxiously in the sheets before he moves forward. Then she can't help but let out a moan as he tastes her. She can't help but immediately slide one hand against the back of his head, roughly grasping his hair as she whimpers. "Don't stop, love,  _hell_ , I love your mouth."

Chris hums a little to show he heard her, smirks slightly. He doesn't intend on stopping until she's orgasmed at least once—and as twisted as it is, there's a part of him that likes knowing he draws out this reaction in her, makes her lose control.

His hands move, sliding underneath and grasping the outside of her thighs to keep her legs spread open. The faint smirk is already gone as he focuses on pleasing her, on drawing out the honey from her body.

" _Fuck_ , you're good." She groans, resisting the urge to shove his mouth further against her. She wraps her legs around his head, letting her head fall back as she moans. If she hadn't already liked his mouth for what he said, she'd have fallen in love with it for how arousing it was between her legs. Forcing herself to loosen her tight grip on his hair, she whines wordlessly before gasping, "Good witchling, damn, that's attractive." Vaguely, she's aware of her babbling, but she doesn't care.

Chris shifts closer, delves his tongue deeper inside her. He's aware of her praise, her babbling—and Goddess help him, he wants  _more_ , wants to hear her moan, wants to hear her gasping that she's going to come.

(It's  _wrong_ ; but he can't stop, not when she's like this, when she's  _told_  him not to stop and his senses are overwhelmed with her arousal.)

"Oh, fuck," she gasps as he moves closer. She can feel the tension coiling in her body as she grips his hair with one hand, encouraging his mouth against her. She's slightly worried that she's going to smother him with her thighs, but whatever his tongue is doing is driving her insane. Moaning, she begs, "Make me come, love, want to come."

Chris hums a little in the back of his throat to show he's heard her; works her with his tongue, digs his nails into her thighs. He's nearly drowning already, her taste flooding his mouth, her moans echoing in his ears. In his altered mental state he's almost pleased that he does this to her, makes her beg and brings her to the edge so relatively quickly. He wants to drink from her— _needs_  to drink from her, to have her come. He's  _hers_ ; he has to serve her, please her…

(…and it's so, so  _wrong_ ; he's half Whitelighter, she's a demon; he'd have his wings clipped but he's where  _they'll_  never find him and  _he belongs to her_ …)

"Mine, my witchling, my witchlighter whore, mine, darling, all mine," she rambles. Thrusting her hips against his mouth wildly, she holds him in place with her death grip on his hair. The building tension coils, snaps, and she throws her head back in bliss as she climaxes. She falls apart with his head still between her legs, crying out his name loudly. Trembling from aftershocks, she drags her fingers through his hair, praising, "Good witch, love, such a good witch."

Chris swallows down every drop she gives him, draws back slightly to kiss the inside of her thigh when aftershocks hit her. His eyes briefly slip shut at her praise, the sensation of her fingers running through his hair.

After a few moments he opens his eyes, lifts his head to look at her. His hands loosen their grip on her thighs, slip down to rest on the sheets.

"Such a pretty mouth, love," she says, running her fingers through his hair again. There's a teasing smile on her lips as she adds, "Have I mentioned how gorgeous you are on your knees for me? Especially with your pretty mouth in between my legs." Gently tugging on his wrists, she silently urges him to stand and join her on the bed.

Chris slowly stands as she tugs on his wrists, kissing his way up her body as he does, joining her on the bed when he reaches her shoulder. "You have now."

He draws back, green eyes meeting blue. "What do you want from me? Tell me."

"What do I want?" she repeats, raising one eyebrow. Dropping her head to his shoulder, she presses a soft kiss against his skin, letting out a small hum as she thinks. "What I want, darling, is for you to be mine, completely. My own little whore, my lover, my witchling. Why do you ask, love?" She looks up at him curiously, gently tracing patterns on his wrists and up his forearms.

He hides his relief that that's all she wants from him; instead kisses her slowly, deeply. After a while he stops, rests his forehead against hers. The detached part of his mind that's still  _Chris_ and not  _hers_  hates himself for what he's doing—for what he's about to say—but  _he doesn't have a choice._

He swallows, whispers, "I want to make love to you."

She lets out a small laugh, smothers it with another kiss against his shoulder. "Darling, you really do have the most incredible stamina." She drops one hand to tug the towel off from where it still clings to his hips before she straddles his lap. She drags her other hand up his arm and shoulder to curl around the back of his neck before pressing a kiss against his lips. "As you wish, love."

"I've had enough time to recover," Chris says, then wishes he hadn't. He shifts his weight, slowly lowering her back down onto the bed. "Besides, you said you want me to be your lover."

He bends his head, kisses her throat. "So this is me surrendering myself to you—completely."

Her lips curve upwards in a smile as she leans her head back to allow him more access to her throat. "I do like the sound of that, darling. And I did tell you that I'm possessive of what's mine." She slips her fingers into his hair, weaving the dark strands around her fingers to tug his head back to press a kiss to his lips.


	5. Chapter 5

_Surrender.  
Surrender._  
_Surrender._  
_Surrender._

—"Surrender" by Evanescence

He briefly returns her kiss; then he’s nuzzling her throat, her collarbone; leaving a trail of kisses down between her breasts. Chris brushes a hand along the side of her body as he moves lower, stops and lifts his eyes to hers. He doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to voice the nagging suspicion in the back of his mind (she hasn’t said anything other than she wants his body, wants him to be her lover—but he knows witches and demons can interbreed, and they haven’t used—).

Chris shuts the thought down before he can finish it (he doesn’t want to go there, doesn’t want to think about the potential consequences of what he’s already done). “I know you are,” he says instead (like he wouldn’t have gathered that on his own from her threat to burn his entire family if he didn’t give in to her).

In one movement he’s hovering over her again, his mouth at her throat, her ear, teeth lightly catching her earlobe before he lets go. “What do you need from me?” His hand on her side drifts, rests over her abdomen. “Your witch whore deep inside you?” He nuzzles her neck, splays his fingers over her skin for a moment before removing his hand. “Taking you?” (He’s already said what he wants to do to her—not that he has much of a choice—and that this is him giving himself to her completely but Chris _needs_ to hear her say it.)

Her head tilts back, eyes slipping closed as he nuzzles at her neck. The word slips out unbidden, "Yes." She wonders for a moment, what exactly the pretty witch thought she wanted with him at first. After all, _this_ had not been her original plan. Truthfully, she'd meant to simply unnerve him a bit, even with her comment on her desire for his body. It'd... spiraled a bit, clearly. Opening her eyes, she's hyper aware of how he's hovering over her before she encourages him to move with a whine.

At her whine, the impatient movement of her hips, Chris lines himself up and slowly enters her until he’s fully sheathed. He stills, gives her body time to adjust before starting a slow rhythm—and the part of him that’s still himself shudders with revulsion, screams inside his head for him to stop. But he can’t—she’ll go after his family if he does, and—

No, he doesn’t even _want_ to think about that possibility, of the consequences of neither one of them using protection and her claiming him as her lover. So he shoves the horrifying thought aside for the third time that night and concentrates instead on the sensations, the stimuli he’s receiving from her body as he runs his hands over her skin, kisses her, enters her again and again with slow deep strokes.

She wraps her legs around his waist, crossing her ankles over the small of his back, urging him on with rolls of her hips. Under his kiss, she stills for a moment, a small mewl slipping out between her teeth. His touch is fire on her skin and she so loved playing with fire. Gripping his shoulder, she lets him control the kiss for once, murmurs against his mouth, “Tell me what you want, love.”

 _You. Dead,_ the small part of his mind that’s still _him_ thinks—but he doesn’t say it aloud, _can’t_ say it aloud—and he prays to the Goddess that this demoness _isn’t_ a telepath.

Chris doesn’t answer her at first, only breaks the kiss to brush his lips against her throat, her jawline while he slowly moves within her. And Cerridwen help him, it’s so _incredibly_ twisted and _fucked up_ that a _demon_ is paying more attention to him than his family ever did, _caring_ for him more than anyone else has and he _hates_ that part of him _craves_ it from her.

It’s the disassociated part of his mind that speaks in a whisper: “For you to stay with me.” And he _does_ want that on some level—to keep the rest of his family safe, to keep her attention on him so she leaves them alone—but it sure as hell _isn’t_ because he feels anything for her, let alone love.

His hands skim lower over her body—hips, legs—and he knows that _soon_ he’s going to _have_ to bring up the thoughts that have been nagging in the back of his mind and he’s kept shoving aside. After. Later. When she’s been sated, and he spent, and he won’t be able to help _but_ think of the potential consequences and if _that_ ’s what she even wants from him.

She lets her head fall back to expose her throat, letting out a small sigh of pleasure. Eyes fluttering closed, she arches into him, hand moving from his shoulder to grip the back of his neck. “Is that so, my love?” A thousand different ideas and thoughts fly through her mind as she says, “Prove it to me, love, and perhaps I will.”

“Prove it to you how?” He kisses her throat, rasps his tongue over her pulse-point. There are several different ways he can imagine that going, but he wants to hear her _say_ it. And there’s no _way_ he’s telling her about the possibility that’s occurred to him until she presses him on it: that they haven’t used any form of protection; that witches and demons can interbreed; how he’s offered himself to her as _her_ whore (to keep her _away_ from his siblings and cousins) and she’s made him her lover…

“So many different possibilities, love," she says, before moaning in pleasure. At the moment, she is a bit partial to the idea of him just fucking her brains out until _she_ was begging _him_ , but perhaps he has a better idea. Dragging her nails down his back, she demands, “What do you think, love?”

He shivers when she drags her nails down his back, groans quietly against her skin. At her question he closes his eyes and shudders again for a completely different reason, digs his fingers into her skin and buries his face for a moment in the pillow beside her head.

Then his mouth is near her ear, his voice soft and unrecognizable to him as his own: “I could give you a child right now, if you wanted.” He chokes back a sudden, intense desire to laugh even though there’s _nothing_ funny about this. And for all either one of them knows, he already has.

She goes completely still for a moment before she opens her eyes to look at him. Raising one eyebrow, she moves to flip their bodies over so that she's pinning him down as she asks, “Now, darling, why would I want that?”

When she flips them over, pins him down, he’s still fighting the urge to let out a dark, humorless laugh—and it’s mixed with a flood of relief at her question that apparently it _isn’t_ what she wants.

Still, Chris doesn’t entirely trust himself to speak right now. When he does, he tilts his head back to expose his throat to her in submission and watches his tone. He doesn’t even _want_ to entertain the possibilities of what she’ll do to him if he messes this up, so he pushes the thoughts out of his mind.

“I’m your whore,” he says softly. “Consort. Lover.” His tongue darts out, wets his lips. “The son of the eldest Charmed One and a Whitelighter and I belong to _you_. I… I thought you’d… want to tie me further to you; would… would _want_ to have my child growing inside you. They wouldn’t vanquish you, wouldn’t be able to touch you if they came looking for me and found us. _Family_ ’s too important to them.”

He remembers the way they treated him in the _other_ timeline in the past, _after_ they found out he was family and it was like their kicking him out of the house, Leo stalking him, Leo threatening to clip his wings (among other things) and saying they never ever wanted to see him again had never happened. As if finding out he was _Wyatt’s younger brother_ brushed all their past treatment of him under the rug. _Tabula rasa_. Blank slate.

And he shouldn’t still be bitter about that, but he _is_. Because of course it was _always_ about Wyatt, even in _this_ timeline—and then Melinda had come along, the girl his parents had always wanted, and Chris had been pushed to the side _again_. Yeah, he’s gotten better about handling his inferiority complex with Wyatt, but it still _stings_ knowing that he’s always been overlooked and while his original self was named after his paternal grandfather, _he_ was named after his future self that died in the past trying to save their older brother.

“You sound almost sad, love.” She hasn't considered it before his words, but it is an interesting possibility. Her head drops down to his throat as she presses kisses to his neck. Making her way up to his ear, she asks, honestly, “Is that what you desire, witchling?”

He’s silent for a few heartbeats save for a sigh as she kisses his neck. His hands skim up her back, her neck, and his fingers tangle in her hair. “If it’s what you want…” Chris arches into her, rolls his hips. “…then yes.” _I might not have a choice already._

There’s no going back, no redeeming himself to the Elders or his family if they ever find out. They wouldn’t want _anything_ to do with him after discovering he’s _made_ himself a demoness’s whore, her lover; that he’s _willingly_ fathered a child with her…

He’s heard the story about what happened when Aunt Phoebe married Cole and became Queen of the Underworld, but _this_? It’s different—he’s half _Whitelighter_ , son and nephew to the Charmed Ones, younger brother to the Twice-Blessed. Whitelighters aren’t meant to deal with demons, much less _this_ —and part of him doesn’t even _care_ how far he’s fallen in the eyes of the Elders or other Whitelighters.

“That," she says, “is not what I asked, my love. _Tell me what you want_.” Despite herself, she leans into his hands as they tangle in her hair, letting out a cry of pleasure when he arches into her.

He shudders beneath her, the closed-off part of his mind that’s still sane _knowing_ he’s only damning himself further in the eyes of the Elders with what he’s going to tell her.

“I already have.” Chris’s breath catches in his throat; his eyes momentarily flutter shut. _Mein Schicksal ist besiegelt._ “Yes, it’s what I want. I want to give you a child.” _Und dein Fluch schwebt genauso wie der Galgen über mir._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Mein Schicksal ist besiegelt._ — My fate/destiny is sealed/set.  
>  _Und dein Fluch schwebt genauso wie der Galgen über mir._ — And your curse floats like the gallows over me.


End file.
